VI.

The sweetest refuge any soul can know! Where all complaining stills its idle voice, And trembling joy bids sorrow soft rejoice Finding the living wand, whose staff below The living waters lie like mountain spring Defiled not in its source, whose shining face Gives to e’en homely herbs a resting-place, With heaven’s blue for their bright shadowing. Pure, living source! wherein who drinks shall thirst Not any more. Blest cup of Love Divine! About whose stem the thorny wreath doth twine, Grown soft for us since He hath borne it first. Cool draught! wherein no hidden drop of gall Makes heaven bitter, and earth’s promise all.